


Render Unto Caesar

by Melanie_Athene



Category: The Professionals
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-11
Updated: 2011-11-11
Packaged: 2017-10-25 23:02:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/275816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melanie_Athene/pseuds/Melanie_Athene
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oh, the joys of paperwork.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Render Unto Caesar

**Author's Note:**

> This story first appeared in Mobile Ghettos II, © 1987 edited by Darien Duck & Phoebe Entwhistle.

Three high-pitched, hiccupping shorts. Two deep-toned, monotonous longs. One protracted, definitely melancholy note that quavered off into a desperate, gusty intake of air. Followed, inevitably, by three high-pitched, hiccupping shorts; two...

Bodie was whistling as only Bodie _could_ whistle: a smug, self-satisfied smirk quirking the corners of pouting lips; dark lashes half-veiling deceptively sleepy eyes; a tiny frown marring the smooth planes of a devil-may-care brow.

 _Bloody stuck record,_ Raymond Doyle lamented, grudging amusement vying with frustrated disgust. _Look at the lazy sod! My home is his castle._

Bodie's chair canted at a gravity-defying angle: two neatly shod feet carelessly commandeering the greater portion of a paper-littered tabletop; hands locked at the base of his skull, pillowing a flung back head.

 _Life of Riley,_ Doyle sighed, meticulously adding a meandering column of figures, scowling as a third sum appeared in as many minutes. _Oh shit. Seven and five are twelve, not thirteen..._

Whistle. Wheeze. Whistle.

 _Two and carry nine... plus four..._

Whistle. Gasp. Whistle. Snort.

 _Carry six and – hang about, why should I do all the work? Half of these receipts are his – better than half! Whatever happened to 'let's pool our efforts'?_

Whistle. Puff.

Doyle gently laid a much-gnawed pencil down beside a heavily scribbled upon pad. “Bodie,” he cooed.

“Hmmm?”

“Nice an' comfy, are we?”

“Mmm.”

“M'not disturbing you, am I? Rustling papers and such?”

“S'all right, Ray. I forgive you.”

“Care for a spot of tea, maybe?”

“Have a beer?”

“Fresh out, sunshine. Run to the corner pub and fetch you some, shall I?”

“Ta... if it's no bother.”

“Raining a bit, but I don't mind. Noah can give me a lift home.”

The phone rang.

“Be a love and get that before you go, will you, Ray?”

“Bloody hell, mate!” Doyle exploded, playful sarcasm swept away by a flood of righteous indignation. “Broke your arm, 'ave you? What do I look like, your bloody secretary?”

Bodie deigned to fully open one blue eye. “Haven't the legs for it,” He judged critically. “Bit knobby about the knees.”

“Oh? Look who's talking.”

“Flat-chested, hairy and too boney by half,” Bodie concluded cheerfully. He re-closed his eye. “Still, shouldn't complain, I suppose. Good lackeys are hard to come by these days.”

Green eyes flashing, Doyle nabbed the relentlessly clamouring phone in mid-ring. “What?” he barked.

Pregnant silence ensued. Hell's fires considerably dampened, a suitably repentant “Yes, sir” was mumbled into the receiver before the instrument clattered back to its hook.

“Cowley?” Bodie carolled innocently.

Doyle glared. “Who else?” he sighed.

“On, are we?” Both eyes were open now, eagerness animating the face. Bodie's chair dropped to the floor with a thump, his feet sending loose papers flying.

“No such luck.” Doyle glumly retrieved the scattered forms.

“The crafty old bugger was just checking up on us, eh?”

“Yeah. Remind me to invite him to our next bomb threat.” He picked up his pencil. “Account Department's breathing down his neck. 'e wants the whole thing straightened out by morning. All six month's worth. All typed up nice and neat – in triplicate – and on his desk by eight sharp.”

“Or?”

“Or he personally will, as he so quaintly phrased it, 'kick both of our arses from London to Glasgow and back again.'”

“Ah, the personal touch. Nothing like it.”

“So they say... Bodie, how the hell are we going to get through this mess by eight? It's quarter to eleven now... I've been over and over 'em, and our vouchers just don't tally. I think some are missing. And most of those we do have are scarcely legitimate business expenses -- let alone valid receipts. Look here.” He held up a stained and tattered napkin. “£35, dinner for two at... L'apres Deux?”

“Informant.”

“You took your informant dancing?”

“I what?”

“Everest Club. Same date. £17.50.”

“Let me see that.”

Doyle handed the papers over; sat waiting impatiently. “Well?” he prompted.

Bodie stuffed the ticket stub into his pocket, wadded up the napkin and batted it in the general direction of an already overflowing waste basket.

“That's what I thought.”

“Oh, really? And what's this, then?” An eyebrow crooked questioningly above a sapphire eye. “Vail's Laundry Service,” he read. “£15.”

“Fair ruined my best suit, I did. Bloody chase through the muck and mire. Popped half me jacket's buttons climbing over a fucking fence. Tore the knee of me trousers wrestling with a trained gorilla. And 'is partner nicked me proper in the sleeve with a .44 -- damned near creased me arm.”

“Ray, old son, why didn't you just put in for a new suit?”

“Waste of money. Plenty of wear in the old one yet.”

“Ray, Ray.” Bodie's head wagged sadly from side to side. “One of these days,” he prophesied, “the dustman will pick you up instead of the rubbish. I'd keep on the move if I were you. Give him a run for his money.”

“What's wrong with the way I dress?”

“If you have to ask...”

Doyle held up a handful of sales slips. “Just because I don't try to be a Dan Dandy from some fashion rag.”

“I'll have you know that I was undercover. Ever heard of dressing for the part, mate?”

“Don't be daft.”

“Well, then?”

“ 'aven't you heard of Rent-a-Tux?”

“One can never tell when one's next assignment will call for a sharply dressed man.”

“Tell that to the Cow. I dare you.”

Bodie's indifference to this challenge was overwhelming. He yawned and scratched his chin. “What's the date on those slips?” he inquired nonchalantly.

“Tuesday last.”

“Hand them here. It occurs to me that my wardrobe has been crowded of late.”

“Right, then.” Doyle pawed through the remaining vouchers, sorting them into two uneven piles. “I think these are okay,” he mused doubtfully. “Can't much argue petrol cost and car repairs.” He passed over the smaller stack of papers. “Add these, will you, Bodie? My eyes don't half ache.”

Bodie accepted the slips. “Sign of getting old, Raymond. You need glasses, most like. Pity. Be a shame to hide those peepers of yours behind frames.”

“ _What?_ ” A curl-topped head lifted from its wary inspection of a battered typewriter keyboard. “Bodie?” Doyle blinked uncertainly. “Did you, or did you not, just pay me a compliment?”

“Shhh. Not now, Ray. I'm figuring.”

“Nice eyes, 'ave I?”

“Hadn't noticed, myself. Heard someone say.”

“Who?”

“Shhh. Six an' five... an'...”

“Who?”

“One an' eight... an'...”

“Who?”

“Jesus, Ray, you sound like a bloody owl. I don't remember who. Okay? Now be a good lad -- and shut up.”

“Samantha, in Records?”

“Ray...”

“Janice?”

“Ray...”

“Murphy?”

“Murphy?” Bodie's head shot erect. Figures forgotten, his startled glance locked with bottomless green pools. “Why the hell would Murphy fancy your eyes?”

Doyle shrugged. “Don't know. Pinched me bum once, 'e did. Thought maybe--”

“Murphy pinched your bottom?”

“You know Murph. Always carryin' on. Heard Cowley chewing him out only yesterday. Said if he didn't take CI5 seriously, he'd be better off--”

“When?”

Doyle frowned. “I just told you. Yesterday. Cowley caught him in the hallway.”

“He caught him pinching you?”

“What? Bodie, what are you talking about?”

“Murphy pinching your arse yesterday. That's what we're bloody well talking about!”

“Bodie...”

“Bloody good thing it was Cowley who caught him and not me. I would have--”

“Bodie!” Doyle's chair scraped back from the table; a weary hand pushed through a tangled mop of hair. “Bodie, you've got it all jumbled. Cowley was at loggerheads with Murph 'bout that last prank he pulled on Forbes. You know, a bucket of water propped over the loo's door? Pretty juvenile stuff. After all the practice he's had, you'd think he'd be in the advanced morons class by now. Guess he's just not--”

“Then he didn't pinch you yesterday?”

“Who, Cowley?”

“ _Murphy!_ ” Bodie roared. “Bloody, goddamned Murphy, you twit!”

“Oh. Him. No, that happened a month or so back. You were down Southampton way. Left me all on my lonesome here, so the Cow doubled me up with Murph 'til you--”

“While the cat's away, eh?”

“What?”

“Knew I'd sock him one if he copped a feel when I was around, didn't he? Well, he isn't home free yet. I don't take kindly to--”

“Crissakes, Bodie. Can't you take a joke? You know how Murph is.”

“Nooo... thought I did... but it would seem I don't. How _is_ he?”

Doyle's temper flared at the crass insinuation. “How _is_ he?” he parroted mockingly, and smiled. “ _Good_ , Bodie. Damned good.”

“Meaning what?”

“Do you want me to spell it out for you? Okay, then, I will. He's a damned good lay. _That's_ how he is!”

When the room stopped spinning and the stars finally faded to mere pinpricks of dancing light, Doyle gingerly hauled himself up to a sitting position on the floor. A disbelieving hand massaged an already purpling jaw. “You bastard,” he hissed. “Where do you get off--”

“Stay away from him or I'll kill you both.”

“You'll what? Listen, mate, I'll bloody well see who I want, when I want, where I want, how I want--”

“Not so long as you're mine, you won't.”

“ _Yours?_ ”

“My partner,” came the quick amendment. The too quick amendment.

Doyle stared at the pallid faced, deadly serious stranger confronting him. Bodie towered over the smaller man: straddling Doyle's outstretched legs, arms loose at his sides, hands knotted into trembling fists of rage.

“You poor, bloody fool,” Doyle sympathised wonderingly. “How long have you felt this way?”

“What do you mean?”

Doyle dismissed the vehement protest with a wave of a hand. “Jealous old sot, aren't you?” he observed casually. “Didn't know you cared.”

“ _Cared?_ ”

“Bit round-about way of showing it, mind.” Doyle staggered awkwardly to his feet, stood drunkenly swaying in front of his apparently totally mesmerised partner. A gentle hand brushed Bodie's cheek, trailed down the grim-set, painfully clenched jaw. “There _are_ better ways, you know,” he whispered sagely. “Much better ways. _I_ know. I've been dreaming about 'em for weeks on end. Debating which approach to try on you. Wondering if you'd hate me if you found out how I feel. And always too bloody scared to admit that I want you... Until now.”

Bodie shivered. His tongue darted out nervously, mouth far too dry to offer parched lips the relief they craved. “Ray,” he croaked, cleared his throat and tried again. “Ray?”

Doyle leaned forward, his tongue tracing Bodie's lips, leisurely moistening the arid surface before delicately increasing the light pressure of warm flesh on warm flesh.

“Ray,” Bodie moaned, the cry torn from deep within his very soul. “Oh God, Ray, please don't... please...”

Desperate fingers curled around Doyle's forearms, the steel bands pulling the unresisting man into a close embrace. Abruptly seizing the initiative, Bodie's mouth ground against Doyle's in helpless abandon. Doyle parted his lips invitingly, welcoming an immediate, passionate invasion. Doing his utmost to meld two bodies into one, Bodie's hips jutted forward, rubbing his groin against the fever-hot bulge filling the front of his partner's skin-tight jeans. Aching with need, gasping with each rhythmic thrust and counter-thrust of clothing-hampered, straining erections, simultaneously the two men froze: dazzling sunbursts of raw emotion peaking in spontaneous, explosive, mutual climax.

Weak-kneed and breathless, mouths locked together and limbs firmly entwined, the lovers sank to the floor: fierce kiss gentling to a soft pattering of kisses about eyes and cheeks and brows.

“Damn... oh, damn...”

“Bodie?” Doyle ceased his contented nuzzling of Bodie's right ear. A determined finger shifted an averted head up to meet his probing scrutiny. “What's wrong?” he demanded worriedly. “Not sorry your little secret's out?”

Bodie's rueful expression faded, his eyes softening. “Nah, never that,” he reassured, fingers idly ruffling through his partner's tumbled curls.

“What, then? Something's troubling you, isn't it?”

“Yeah... I'm sorry the secret 'came out' in me britches. Christ, Ray, look at us.”

Doyle's glance lowered to their trousers' semen-drenched crotches. He laughed.

“Oh, right. S'fine for you. You've got a wardrobe full of replacements at hand. I have to go home this way.”

Doyle's laughter died. “Home,” he echoed flatly. “Oh. Right. Of course. I just thought... I assumed... I mean...” He blushed, looked away. “Well, you could always rinse 'em out here,” he muttered hesitantly.

Bodie smiled. “Asking me to stay the night, are you, sunshine?”

“Would you?” Child-like hope replaced embarrassment on the quickly upturned face.

Had refusal been on Bodie's mind, such unguarded anticipation as he now read in Raymond Doyle's bewitching eyes would have undoubtedly changed his stand. There were a thousand words he might have uttered. “Yes,” was all he found the power to say. The promise – and the hunger – in his eyes said the rest.

 

~*~

A persistent tapping, interspersed with a periodic “Shit!”, tore a reluctant Doyle from the depths of pleasure-filled dreams. Refusing to pry open sleepy, heavy-lidded eyes, a blind, questing hand searched the cool emptiness of his mattress for the warm presence he expected to find beside him.

Both eyes shot open: Bodie was gone.

 _Tap-tap-tap._ “Shit!” _Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap-tap._ “Shit!” _Tap-tap-ding!_

Not bothering with slippers or a robe, a naked Raymond Doyle stole to his bedroom door. Seated at his kitchen table, hunch-shouldered above his ancient Smith-Corona, was an equally naked William Andrew Philip Bodie.

Several lewd and delightfully possible ideas flittering in his brain, a happy leer pasted on his face, Doyle was halfway across the cold, tiled floor when Bodie leaped to his feet, triumphantly wrenched papers and carbon from machine, spun on his heel... and froze.

“Aw, shit,” they chorused, “I wanted to surprise you.”

The element of surprise obviously deceased, they settled for the next best thing: quick steps brought them together for a slow and sensuous good morning kiss.

“Mmmm,” Doyle sighed, running appreciative hands up and down Bodie's spine, trembling as this action was rewarded with delicious spasms of uncontrollable excitement. “And here I thought you'd run off on me,” he murmured.

“Didn't have the strength. Plumb wore me out, you did.”

“Oh?” Warm fingers clasped Bodie's rigid shaft. “Recovered now, I see.”

“Can't keep a good man down.”

Doyle groaned; Bodie grinned shamelessly.

“Seriously, Ray, had unfinished business to attend to. Hadn't forgotten Cowley, had you?”

“Oh-my-God. Yes. I had, as a matter of fact.”

“Hmm. Flattering, that.”

“I'm sure. Take it I wasn't as, um, distracting for you?”

“Oh, you weren't half bad.”

“For a boney, hairy, flat-chested--”

“Ah, well... I'll get used to your little faults and flaws. Might take awhile, but I'm a patient man. I'll suffer in silence.”

“That'd be a first.”

“What's one more first between friends?”

“True.”

“Was a first, you know, Ray.” All humour and pretense had dropped from the voice. Intent, suddenly vulnerable and endearingly shy blue eyes refused to waver from Doyle's bemused gaze.

“I know,” Doyle finally replied. “It was for me, too.”

“Thought Murphy initiated you,” Bodie teased.

“I lied. Thought it was funny, the way I had you going. Got good an' mad when you turned nasty. Tried to give back better'n you gave. And, then, I saw how much I was hurting you.” He swallowed dryly. “ _That_ hurt me worse than your punch did. I realised what a shit I was being... how unfair... Murphy's never laid a finger on me in his life. Never. Always the perfect gentleman every time we team up. Might as well be working with a stiff.”

“Sounds like you wanted something to happen.”

“Only if it happened with you, Bodie. Only with you.”

Bodie's arms wrapped around Doyle in a wordless rush of love, heart overflowing with gratitude for his incredible good fortune in finding that love returned a hundred-fold.

“Bodie?”

“Hmm?”

“You weren't really going to... um...”

“Tear Murphy apart limb by limb?”

“Yeah.”

“Yes. I was.”

“Over me?”

“Can't think of a better cause, sunshine.”

“Guess I'd better keep that in mind for future reference.”

“So had Murphy.”

“You possessive, jealous, pompous--”

Bodie's mouth effectively silenced the affectionate chiding; the papers still clutched in his left hand fluttered to the floor.

Doyle melted into his lover's fervent embrace, luxuriating in the kiss, reluctantly withdrawing only as straining lungs made known their need for air. A strange rustling sounded from the region of his contentedly curling toes. Disinterestedly, he glanced down, abruptly recalled his partner's mysterious typing session, and determinedly squirmed free as Bodie enthusiastically sought to distract him with another kiss. Stooping to gather the discarded pages, yelping at the stinging swat to his bare bottom as he moved away, he scanned the 'neatly' typed forms.

“Surprise,” Bodie drawled wryly.

“Jesus! This must have taken you hours! Why didn't you wake me?”

“Didn't have the heart.” Bodie's hand gently touched Doyle's bruised jaw. “Owed you a favour.” He shrugged, grinned. “Besides, how much 'work' do you think we would have accomplished with both of us awake?”

Doyle blushed. “Still, Bodie,” he protested, “it was hardly fair to palm it all off on you.”

“Isn't that what I was doing to you last night?”

“That... among other things.”

It was Bodie's turn to blush. “Shit,” he said, valiantly striving for composure. “I meant, turn about's fair play,” he continued his already lost argument.

Doyle laughed. “Turn about it was,” he agreed. “Turn and turn and...”

“ _Shit!_ ” Bodie's pink colouring deepened to scarlet. “Ray, so help me I'm going to...”

The phone rang. Doyle glanced at the clock on the wall: _7:49_ , it read.

“Not until tonight you aren't,” he sighed. “But I'll hold you to that promise then, mate.” He picked up the phone. “We're on our way, sir,” he said.


End file.
